Mind of a Killer
by Halik
Summary: Harold Saxon didn't care much about people. He much rather would have stayed in his room with his books. But when Harold finds a woman murdered in a back alley with a code of mysterious circles written on the walls in a language that doesn't look like anything from this planet, he is flung into a world of serial killers and insanity that he can only begin to understand. A crime AU.
1. Chapter 1

The woman was rather standoffish. Her long face positioned in a very unamused expression, fingers typing rapid fire on the unseen keys behind the desk. A man leaned against the polished marble reception counter, peering over to get a better look at what she was doing, giving a small satisfied nod. Yes, she was definitely the right woman. He was certain.

She glanced up, her brow twitching in frustration at the sight of him "Oye! What are you staring at? What do you want?"

The man gave a sad smile that pulled at the ends of his thin lips to draw them into an invisible line, softly laughing in the back of his throat.

"Do you think something is funny? Because I don't see anything funny around here, mate." She snapped before returning to typing up what appeared to be expense reports, then again he was never very good at business-y things, so it could have been the mortgage or a grocery list.

The young man leaned further over the desk so that he stood on tip toe in his out-of-place hiking boots "Actually I'm looking for someone, could you happen to tell me where I could find a-", he turned his hand to examine something written on it "Ms. Donna Noble."

"I'm Donna Noble."

"Aha lovely that's what I thought!" He grinned further, lips completely disappearing, his eyes sparkling with an unnerving amount of enthusiasm.

The woman, Donna Noble, didn't even try to hide her confusion and annoyance at the strange man who was now almost all the way over the desk and could very possibly fall into her small office that she shared with one other temp.

"What do you want?"

"There's something I want to show you!"

He then proceeded, like an overly excited child, to fling himself over the desk, grab hold her of wrist, and pull her out the back door of Smiths & Smith Accounting without another word.

* * *

Harold could feel his phone buzzing in his pocket, the screen glowing with an infuriating vibrancy through his denim pants under the pew style tables of the lecture hall. He continued to rapidly scribble notes down on the page. Whatever it was they could call him back later.

His attention was focused back to the front of the room, where the professor had now proceeded to derive a "complex" formula that he had figured out some years ago. He allowed his mind to wonder, pale eyes fixed on the blackboard, part of his mind absorbing the material while the other part contemplated far more important things.

Like how pretty the tiny brunette girl in the row in front of him was.

He could imagine himself with a smart girl like that. If anyone existed that could possibly manage to hold his interest as long as he could. Which he seriously doubted. Other people didn't much matter to Harold. For all he knew, he was the only one that was really thinking right now and they were all just part of his delusion of the conscious mind.

Including the pretty brunette who was now straitening her camisole under her sweater when she thought that no one else in the hall was looking.

And then his mobile lit up again and let out a small ping of a text message.

He let out a low curse that made the few people next him glance over with puzzled expressions before returning to their transfixed, glazed over stares to the front of the room. He slid the phone out of his pocket, not at all surprised and increasingly frustrated to see is stupid-idiot-of-a-roommate's name on the screen.

What the hell could John possibly want _now_?

He tapped the screen to open the message.

_Hey Harry, do you know what 'Allons-y' means?_

Harold let out an exasperated sigh; he had quickly learned that it was better to just play along with John. If you didn't he would probably just keep sending 'Allons-y!' to the phone until he did finally respond.

_I don't know. I'm not French, idiot._

His flat mate was eccentric by most standards, and not in the way that girls thought was cute. John Smith, although a man of a common name, was a most uncommon man. He had interested Harold since he was a young boy living down the street. And that was saying something since Harold usually didn't give much of a damn about other people and would much prefer to be reading his books.

John would often go several days without eating or speaking to anyone, simply lying on his bed and staring at the stain splattered ceiling of their flat like the squiggles of questionable brown fluid were really constellations of a far of galaxy swirling with a wonderful majesty that Harold failed to see. He then would have instances where Harold swore he was living with a thirteen year old boy. Where he talked with his hands more than his mouth and would disappear for long periods in the middle of the night only to be found in the living room the next morning surrounded by yo-yo's and balls of yarn.

This was one of those lovely moments.

His phone let out another ping, someone down the pew shot in another dirty look. Harold ignored it and opened the message.

_It means "Let's go!" So come on Harry, make like a Frenchman and allons-y!_

A few second later a second message appeared on the screen.

_I'm bored. There's nothing to do in the flat._

Harold rolled his eyes. John was skipping class. Again. Typical. So utterly typical. And John wondered why he was on academic probation once again this semester. And yet Harold couldn't help himself. Whenever John wanted to go on an adventure strange things always seemed to happen that Harold couldn't possibly explain. One time they had ended up at a gay bar and—

_Hold on. I'll meet you at the flat._

Harold shook his head, sending the message, chuckling softly as he swung his satchel over his shoulder, giving one last look at the equation that he already knew how the solve on the black board before slipping out of the lecture hall.

It was raining outside, which wasn't much of a surprise. In a way Harold was almost relieved. When it was sunny out people were often far friendlier and occasionally some random stranger would try to strike up conversation on the street. Which Harold did not have time for. But when it was raining the dreary gray and mist created an invisible wall between people as they shuffled about from one destination to the next. And he could walk alone in peace.

That may have been why no one noticed the body.

Harold only noticed it because he _saw _these things, little bits and pieces of things that didn't belong. And a slumped figure that wasn't the shape or color of trash bags propped up against the wall with the trash more certainly wasn't typical of this part of town.

Without a moment of hesitation he whirled on his heels and slid into the thin alleyway, relieved that his shoulders there thin enough to fit between the two brick walls. He knelt down next to the not-a-trash-bag. He was going to be late. John wasn't going to be pleased.

At first Harold wasn't all that concerned. Maybe she had just passed out from too much to drink the night before. It happened. Maybe not in this part of town. But who was he to judge, maybe the accountants in the Smiths & Smith building next door had gotten slammed last night. Probably not. But still.

He felt for a pulse. Nothing. Not even a feeble flutter. Her skin was as cold as the brick that he now nervously tapped his fingers against. A bad habit he'd had since he could remember. All the color on her had been drained out besides her navy sweater and deep mahogany colored hair.

Harold's hands were shaking. His heart was beating unevenly in his chest. His hands fumbled for the phone in his pocket, punching in the number for the police without even thinking. Usually he wouldn't care about something like this. Just leave her for someone else. But there was something _familiar _about this woman that made some part of his mind scream in discomfort. Like there was something on her back that he couldn't see or that he couldn't remember.

"Hello this is the police. What is the problem?"

"Um…" It was one of the few moments where Harold was at a loss for words and when he did finally speak his voice was hesitant and uneasy "I'd like to report a murder, or a homicide or… there's a body of a…a woman…on the south alley of the Smiths & Smith building."

"What's your name sir?"

For a moment he swore that he had forgotten his name, his eyes just couldn't leave the colorless blue lips of the unknown woman. Who was she? Why was she important?

"Sir?"

"Oh, um sorry. Harold Saxon. My name is Harold Saxon."

"Thank You, Mr. Saxon, we will send someone to your position. They should be there in a few minutes. Please stay where you are and don't attract any attention to yourself." And then the line fizzled out.

Harold held the phone up to his ear for a few more moments before slipping it back into his pocket. He let his back press again the brick wall, sliding down so that no one from the street could see him cry behind the body and the trash. He didn't know why he was crying, but the tears just wouldn't stop. Slipping silently down his still warm skin for a woman that he didn't even know. Who had not been thrown in the garbage, he noticed, but laid there almost lovingly. Her back perfectly propped up and her head gently tucked to the side like a parent putting his little girl to bed. It was sickening.

And that was when he felt something wrong behind his back. A certain wet stickiness that shouldn't have been there, even on a rainy day in an alley filled with the half eat lunches of cubical workers.

He sprang back up, staring in wide eyes horror at the wall he had just been leaning against. If he had not had such a strong stomach he most certainly would have thrown up. Wondering how he had not seen it before as the police pull up on the main street and ushered him away from the scene. Harold couldn't hear them. He stayed transfixed on the wall until they had removed him from the crime and taped off the area. Even then he could still see it in his mind.

Circles. Hundreds on interlocking circles and lines and dots strewn across the brick. Painstakingly drawn out so that each circle was somehow perfect in every way. It looked beautiful. And horrible. Since it glistened the muted dark red of coagulated blood. Right above the woman head, in English, was written

"Donna Noble. I am so, so sorry."


	2. Chapter 2

He glanced over at the desk across the room of his advanced immunology and embryonic pathogens course, hands tensing slightly at the empty desk. She was supposed to be here. Where was she?

Every day at Martha Jones was exactly five minutes early to class. Exactly at nine fifty five she would always burst into the room and slide into the desk. Always looking out of breath with her cheeks flushed, yet still always early. Good old Jones.

Or at least she was "good old" to him. When she looked at John it was like she could hardly see he was there. Part of his mind found this rather ironic. The part of his mind that was currently conscious couldn't possibly find why that would be ironic.

The professor came to the front of the room and began to speak, about what John didn't particularly care. Martha wasn't here. Something was wrong. As the professor put is lecture papers down the medical student made a point of standing up with a choreographed precision to the slap of the papers on the podium and strutted out the door, broad shoulders flung back and square chin held high.

He could feel the eyes of the entire class on his back.

His heart fluttered with joy.

The doors were slamming behind him, the professor's feeble "Mr. Smith get back here" lost in four inches of wood.

John reached into his backpack and pulled out his phone, scowling down to Martha, labeled "The One Who Left", he usually labeled his contacts based on their relationship with himself; it made more sense to John in his self-centric world. But the choice of "The One Who Left" confused even John. After all Martha hadn't left, she sat three rows away from him on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays; and two rows away on Tuesdays the Thursdays.

When he decided to come to class.

Which he had today because Harry refused to talk to him since last night, for what John wasn't particularly sure but he had the sinking feeling it was somehow his fault. It usually was.

He pressed the number and held the phone up to his ear listening to an ever persistent dial tone.

_Hello, this is Martha Jones. Please leave your name and number and I'll respond to you as soon as I can. And if this is you Mickey, I told you that I get off my shift at seven. Please stop calling the hospital asking for me. Please. _

The phone asked if he would like to leave a message, but the ear of the medical student was no longer pressed against the cool glass screen. He crammed the phone into the pocket of his jeans and frantically ran down the hall, a glow of excitement and horror fluttering at the corners of his thin lips.

* * *

Harold was drunk googling again. And this time it wasn't a drinking game to see how many letters he had to type before "Saxon for Prime Minister" was the most searched result. Yes. That was John's idea of a drinking game. And surprisingly it was the top result once you typed the "P".

Which made some deep part of Harold rather pleased with himself.

He took another drink of the cheap beer. Forcing the bitter tasting, piss colored liquid down his throat. Tipping the bottle back so that the last few drops tumbled down.

He had come in late last night. What he had done between the time he had found the body of the woman, Donna Noble according to the writing on the walls, he didn't quite remember. Nor did he particularly want to. Harold was certain that he had wandered around the streets for a while, at some point he went to a seedy looking bar where he unsuccessfully attempted to drink away his feelings, and there was a petite woman with the most amazing blonde hair who had slapped him at some point.

That was it.

At two in the morning he had come into the apartment to find John laying on his back in the middle of the floor, eyes fixed with a glazed expression on the ceiling, rubbing a can of beer between his large square hands. His lips barely moved when he spoke, his dry words hanging in the air with the smell of the booze "I hope that whatever you were doing was worth it."

No "Where were you" or "Harry, why is your left cheek the color of the nurse's faces whenever you walk in a room? What have you been doing and why didn't you invite me? I had something really cool planned."

It was strange, and uncharacteristic that John didn't pry. Instead he just tossed the beer in the trash across the room with amazing coordination considering how drunk he was, and climbed into his bed, rolling over and as far as Harold could tell instantly falling to sleep.

Harold shook his head, glancing over his shoulder to the still sleeping lump of blankets illuminated by his computer screen. Part of him wanted to tap the sleeping medical student on the foot and ask him what was wrong. But he didn't care quite _that _much about his roommate.

The sound of his typing filled the dark room.

_Who is Donna Noble_

That didn't tell him much. Just a few pictures of her with her mates in some bars. Links to social networking sites. She seemed fairly normal. Not extraordinary or important in the slightest. The sort of people that made Harold sick Not the sort of person to get killed in the street and dumped.

_Languages that use interlocking circles_

_Serial killers in the upper downtown area_

And

_I am so, so sorry_

All nothing besides what he would have expected. Language guides for Asians trying to learn English, a map of sexual predators living the downtown area (there were a disturbing number around parks), and strange gifs of a young man with spiky hair and thick black framed glasses.

Harold searched deeper. He sank further and further into the internet, dropping as steadily as the level of beer his can. After what felt like only twenty minutes he allowed himself to check the time. Four a.m. It had been two hours, and still nothing. All that he had managed to accomplish was a slightly pounding head.

It was time to get serious with the drunk googling.

Stop thinking. Just type. Let the booze do the talking.

_Who is the man in the "I am so, so sorry" gifs?_

There was one response: The Doctor.

_Who is the Doctor?_

Nothing. Not a single link popped up upon request. Not even a link to a dentist or a gynecologist. The page before him remained stark white besides on link to a single website that didn't appear related in the slightest.

"Hello Sweetie" Harold read aloud, his voice catching a bit on the last syllable. John mumbled something. For some reason that made Harold nervous. He wasn't sure why he didn't want to tell John about what he had seen or what he was looking up now or even what was obviously been wrong with John tonight. But something just didn't feel _right _about it.

He clicked the link.

The page flashed a deep blue color with white text and a wood pattern in the background. It was obviously a very mature website. Obviously.

_Hello Sweetie. Wow you've made it this far. Someone should give you a metal. You still give those out, right? I did rather like them. Meet me at the end of the metro station at noon tomorrow. I have something for you._

There were kisses on the bottom of the note that made Harold shift in his chair uncomfortably.

Heart racing, Harold clicked away. The corners of his lips turned up, slightly turned on by the idea on an internet ransom note. But why make it available on Google? Wasn't that a bit conspicuous? The words burned in his mind. Whoever this Doctor was someone was waiting for him.

And they obviously weren't going to be very nice.

* * *

John ran along the rusted tracks of the old metro. He knew where she had been taken. It was obvious. He had seen the message on Harry's computer last night. Not very inconspicuous, but that wasn't really her style. Never had been, never would be. That's part of what he loved about her. She gave him a _challenge._

Harry should learn to hide his computer screen better.

It might get him into trouble in the future.

Adrenalin and fear cycled through John's brain as he walked into a part of the tunnel covered in shadow. He'd think about Harry and why he had been searching for The Doctor to being with later. There were more pressing matters at hand.

His hands fumbled for his phone, pulling it out and turning on the light so that the long abandoned metro train tracks were cast in an unearthly green light. His breath hanging before him like cigarette smoke. He tried to breath quieter. Everything about what he did, down to each step he took, seemed entirely too loud. Too _human. _

There a sound behind him.

The hairs on the back of his neck shot up.

He held the phone up above his head, realizing that he had been backed into the dead-end corner of the metro.

Oh hell.

"Martha? Is that you? Martha Jones?" His voice managed to keep its smooth, calm quality.

He could hear breathing.

"Listen Martha. If that is you. I will save you. I promise I will get you back."

"Oh how cute." A female voice mocked from the edge of the darkness just out of reach from his phone light. "The little Doctor has a crush."

The young man froze, pupils turning to pin pricks in his gray-green irises. His voice shook "How did you get that name? No one knows that name. Or, well, at the very least no one knows that name is my name."

"Oh please, John, I've known about you and your little games for a while." John could almost hear the unseen woman roll her eyes "That Noble woman, very nice Doctor. I didn't think you had it in you."

The Doctor reached into his backpack with his free hand, fumbling until his hand wrapped around something solid and reassuring.

"It's not like I wanted to. I had to."

"Oh please. What's that phrase that you like to use, Doctor? Oh yes. 'Time can be rewritten'. Or am I mistaken? I doubt I am."

"Not those times. If I let her live I'd just make her life miserable. Just my existence in this world would cause the same thing to happen. She would lose everything all over again. I don't want to be responsible for that. Not again. They always end up the same no matter how hard I try." John didn't fully understand what he was saying. His lips forming the words before he could fully comprehend the meaning behind them. All he knew was that he had to keep the woman talking. Martha would be fine as long as he could keep the crap coming.

"You wouldn't want to go back? There's no reason at all?" There was a sad twinge in the woman's voice.

"I don't see any."

"Well then…" the woman seemed hurt.

There was a sound of a struggle in the dark, a muffled cry before a figure was pushed into the light behind him. John spun around. Martha Jones stumbled for a moment before gaining her balance. Blinking to adjust to the light. She stared at his face, head turning to the side, puzzled. She looked a bit beat up but over all she seemed fine "John what are you doing here? Where are the cops? Why didn't you call the co—"

There was a bang.

Red began to ooze from the side of Martha's head. Glistening in the familiar green light. Her eyes turning blank, crumpling on the stone floor with a dull thud, the bullet sinking deeper and deeper into the gray matter of her brain.

John froze. But the Doctor didn't.

The Doctor's lips twisted into a cold sneer while he pulled the object out the backpack. Holding a small handgun out in front of him. Pointing it at the spot that Martha had emerged from. The only thing that deceived his calm composer were his eyes, mad and dark, glaring into the impenetrable darkness.

"Oh you're quiet now! Why the silence? I thought that you wanted to talk? Or maybe killing my friend made you considerably less chatty." He shook the gun, jaunting forward. "I AM TALKING TO YOU."

"I was told that you won't have a gun."

She sounded afraid. Which made him happy. It shouldn't have. But it did. "Who told you that? Why can't you just leave me alone? Everyone else does." He sneered into the dark.

He didn't get an answer. Just the sound of impossibly faint heeled footsteps walking back to the platform at a leisurely pace. If he ran he could have caught her easily. But his knees buckled, he threw the gun as far away as he could manage, feebly crawling over to his fallen friend. He pressed his forehead to hers, muffled sobs choked from his throat, eyes closed.

"Martha. I'm sorry. Martha. Please don't be dead. Please."


End file.
